


Time is Not a Fixed Construct

by starhawk2005



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, Het, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:57:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starhawk2005/pseuds/starhawk2005
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Co-written with <b>_vicodin</b> on LJ. The structure of this fic was inspired by the movie ‘Memento’. Never seen it? The movie is told from end-to-beginning, in short segments. Thusly, this story begins at the end, and ends at the beginning. Confused, yet? So were we. *wink*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time is Not a Fixed Construct

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: We are not affiliated with the show in any way, and make no profit from this piece of fiction. *sobs into coffee*  
> Betas: We’d like to thank our beta katakombs, who helped us try to make sense out of this. Blame us if it still doesn’t, though.  
> Author Notes: Spoilery for S2.

Cameron left, head held high. He’d tortured her for too long, and now it was her turn.

She still bore the bruises from his hands. The ones he’d left on her yesterday. But this didn’t bother her. She almost thought of the marks as a badge of courage. As a sign that she’d made him work for it, and that she hadn’t ultimately given in, hadn’t given him what he sought. What he needed, for once. 

At the very least, she could look upon what had happened yesterday as her revenge for him not caring sooner. When she’d needed it. After witnessing what had happened between him and Stacy up to this point, she knew he understood the concept of revenge.

She supposed that it was still possible that things could work out between them. If he stopped chasing after Stacy. Maybe if he showed up at her apartment and _begged_ her. If he demonstrated that underneath that emotional armour, there actually was a shred or two of humanity.

Until then, all he’d have were the memories of what had happened the day before. She’d give him nothing else, otherwise.

Nothing else.

** ++ **

 

She’d won this round.

He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that she’d gotten the better of him. **** Yesterday, yesterday he’d had her. Had everything he wanted from her. She’d let him—fuck. She’d let him kiss her, get _inside_ her. And then shut him down. Cold.

He’d been so sure that he’d had her. That he’d demonstrated his superiority. Taken their battle to the one level where he was sure to prevail. Because she had the hots for him, hadn’t she? Even had loved him, once? **** If he gave her what she wanted, then—

Yet, she’d somehow managed to _win_. Despite his best efforts.

And he hated it. Couldn’t stand it.

He’d come into work that morning. Thirteen minutes late, as usual, just to annoy Cuddy, and sat in his office ever since. He’d done nothing else because the thoughts of the previous day kept assaulting him. Again and again. It was ridiculous, because he could almost always block such things out. And this time, he just couldn’t. How he hated it. Just fucking hated it. The thought of Cameron kissing him, her losing control right in front of him as he taunted her, as he _fucked_ her, and then her leaving him. With just the prelude. Nothing else. 

It was haunting him. Over and over again. And he let it. 

His thoughts were cut off by the click of heels as she entered the office and began to make the coffee, like she always did. Usually, it was before he came in. For some reason, he’d thought she wouldn’t do that today. But she seemed….normal. For fuck’s sake, _normal_. After yesterday. After everything.

The frustration was killing him. And slowly at that.

Watching him from the corner of her eye, Cameron knew she’d finally won. Gotten the upper hand, no pun intended. And she wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. So she continued the same act she’d been putting on for weeks with House. And now, she knew that it would get to him. All of it. The neutral tone. The little smiles. Almost acting as if yesterday’s unexpected tussle in the snow had never been. Let him be the confused one, for a change. Let her be the inhuman one, for a change. Or at least, inhuman towards _him_. 

House had fought hard to keep his frustration from showingas she walked into the office so damn calmly. But now, he was starting to remember everything, and _fuck_ — “You didn’t sort the mail this morning,” was all he said when she began to walk away. His eyes met hers and he banished the thoughts from his mind.Rather, tried to. He wanted to exercise that control he was so proud of, and get rid of those thoughts.The thought of—

Then, she smiled at him. Like she did yesterday. And ruined everything. All of his careful thought and planning of how he was going to avoid her and what had happened. How he was going to deal with it. The smile—usually a customary greeting from her—was somehow different and drove him absolutely insane. 

Usually he knew everything. Every reaction she could give him and every word that could come out of her mouth in response to one of his questions or assumptions. Probabilities and calculations were wonderful things. Especially for him, because they saved him from having to interact with anyone. He would simply study her reactions to him and the way she moved, the way she spoke—it was an art—and he would know.

“Maybe next time, House.”

This time, he didn’t know.

Her words brought back everything from the previous day, and a violent chill ran down his spine. 

She didn’t see it. She simply walked out of the room and left him there with the sensation of her hands on his skin—burning—and her lips on his. 

Nothing else.

++

 

There was no such thing as _predictable_ anymore. 

At least, she couldn’t have predicted that House would reach down and grab her wrist in an almost-painful grip. She couldn’t have predicted that he’d then start limping off behind the bench, dragging her along with him in a strange ungainly rhythm. Didn’t predict that they’d wind up behind a stand of snow-covered bushes. That he’d lower himself clumsily down into the snow, dragging her down along with him.

She ended up lying on her right side in the snow, facing him. He was still gripping her wrist, so tightly that her fingers were starting to fall asleep inside her gloves.

Allison didn’t know what kind of game he was trying to play, now, but damned if she was going to give him an easy time of it. “Let me _go_.” She kept her voice low, not wanting to alert any passers-by – the PPTH rumour mill had enough dirt on her, after that incident with the meth and with Chase, thank you very much - so instead she punctuated her demand by shoving at the centre of his chest with her free hand.

“No.” he said, his voice as quiet as hers. His eyes were smouldering, a mix of emotions she couldn’t decipher. And she told herself that she didn’t really want to.

In another time and place, she might have welcomed this fully. Might have embraced him. But the hurt in her wrist and hand, the hurt in her heart, made her want to fight him, hurt him, even. She kept shoving at him, even stopping once to try to pry his fingers off her wrist, but it didn’t work. 

Even when she whacked him in his bad thigh with her knee (intentional or not, even _she_ wasn’t sure) and he hissed in pain, she didn’t stop struggling. Didn’t feel the slightest bit of remorse about hurting him. This was what working for him had reduced her to. She was becoming nearly as inhuman as him.  It appalled her, at some level. No matter how many times her superiors had told her she felt too much, that she was too empathetic. That she needed to be colder, to put more distance between herself and those she tried to treat. 

And yet, another part of her was arguing that after how cold he’d been to her, after her HIV exposure, that he deserved to suffer. And physical pain was the only way to get to him, wasn’t it? There was no reason to feel guilty for hitting his bad thigh, considering all the **** pain he’d inflicted on her, especially in the recent past.

His grip on her wrist loosened, but he didn’t let go. And she still couldn’t get free. His other hand went to his thigh, rubbing, obviously trying to dampen the ache. And his eyes locked on her face, as he whispered harshly, mockingly: “And here I thought you wanted this. You wanted me to care. To care that you got HIV-infected blood on you. To care that you might be afraid. To care that you wentcrazy and took hard drugs.To care that you _fucked_ Chase.”

Before she even realized that she had moved, her free hand had connected with his cheek. But he didn’t cry out. There was only a harsh intake of breath, and then he grabbed her by the upper arms, his grip still painfully tight, and yanked her hard against his chest.

She had to grind her teeth against a moan when he scraped his cheek over hers. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “I can _fuck_ whomever I want.” she hissed back, instead, hands curling into tight fists against his body. “It’s no business of yours. And you’re too busy running after your ex like a horny dog, anyways.”

He did the unpredictable again, cursing colourfully in a low voice, and then one of his hands was tangled in her hair, pulling her forward into a rough kiss.

The roots of her hair ached, her lips were getting uncomfortably mashed, and her face abraded by his stubble. But it didn’t matter. All that was brushed aside for an interminable few seconds, during which all she could feel was his tongue hot in her mouth, forcibly discovering her.

He released her other arm, too, but she didn’t move. And that surprised her, but she didn’t have time to think about it. Didn’t want to think about it. Especially when she felt him starting to yank impatiently at the collar of her coat. Now what was he up to? Did he actually have the balls to take this even further? Looked like she was about to find out.

Finally there came the rough purr of a zipper being jerked down, and cold air seeped in against her throat and chest. Well, if she was going to be cold, might as well do the same to him. Not to be outdone, she mimicked his action on his own leather jacket, yanking the zipper down almost hard enough to break it.

He broke the kiss and jerked her even closer, this time by the lapels of her coat. First came the harsh scrape of scruff along her cheek, and then the harsher whisper in her ear: “ _You’re_ the jealous one,” he accused. “Jealous of Stacy.”

She almost laughed at the stupidity of his assumption. Projecting much, Dr. House?

Her blouse tore, buttons coming off and getting lost in the snow. And a rough gloved hand grabbed at her breast through her bra. No finesse, no gentleness. So why did she feel the heat increasing between her legs? He was _winning_ , damn it. And she hated it.

She laughed bitterly, low and angry. “Fucking bastard.” she shot back at him, knocking his hand away. That kiss had almost made her forget that she wasn’t supposed to be giving in that easily, but his clumsy groping had reminded her.

His answering chuckle made homicidal rage boil up behind her eyes. “Well,” he jeered in a low voice, “I’m certainly ‘fucking’ right now. Or _soon_. But you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Dr. Cameron?”

Like Hell. Without missing a beat, she shot back in her own low tone: “’Fucking’? That’s a laugh. You’ve barely made it past first base. You can’t even take clothes off properly.” She made a motion towards her ruined blouse.

In response, he dragged her mouth back to his. Not fair, but then again, when had he ever played fair? A gloved hand was back inside her blouse, and then her bra, snatching and grabbing. It made her angry. It made her want to grind herself against him. Such a confusing whirl of emotions. But one thing was for sure, she wasn’t going to let him have total control of this. She was going to participate, not be passive and let him have his way. Not this time. One hard yank, and his tee shirt hem was out of his jeans. She shoved her own hands under the fabric, digging her fingers into his chest and stomach, grasping at him without any gentleness, as well. She was almost grateful for the gloves separating her hands from the feel of his skin. It might be too tempting to give in, otherwise. To let go of the anger.

In the back of her mind, she knew she could stop this. He wasn’t holding her any more, she could get up and walk away. _Should_ get up and walk away. Becoming easy prey for one man this month was already way over any acceptable limit.

And she hated him. She did. Why should she give herself, or let herself be taken, by someone she hated? She hated him for his coldness, for his lack of concern when she’d been exposed, for the way he obsessed over things he had no right to, obsessed over Stacy. Hell, he probably hated her, too. For getting in his face, for pushing him to try to feel things. For being able to get under his skin, maybe.

And yet, she wanted more. She wanted him to touch her. **** Wanted to feel his skin on hers. **** This wasn’t the way she had pictured it happening, not by a long shot. But as angry as she was, she wanted him. Hadn’t that been the case all along? Wanting him, despite the fact he was a complete and utter jerk?

He seemed to sense the train of her thoughts. His hands were busy at the fastening of her pants, now. And she didn’t stop him. This was what she wanted. **** She’d let him do this because she knew she would have the control in the aftermath. It was hers, now. **** She knew she wasn’t going to make herself easy prey. If he wanted something from her, he was going to have to put out an _effort._

“This'll be interesting to think about during differential diagnosis tomorrow, won't it?" he taunted her now, warm breath tickling her ear, stubble like fire along the side of her neck.

“You’re an asshole.” she growled, removing one hand from under his shirt so she could shove his questing hands away. But he kissed her again, dizzying her. Tempting her to give in, to just let him do what he wanted.

“I know.” he said. Just as her pants and underwear were thrust down around the midpoint of her thighs, icy air stinging her exposed flesh. And then the cold leather of his riding glove was right between her legs, slipping across her clit, and she couldn’t help gasping and letting her head fall back.

He laughed at her again, low and jeering, and she forced herself to focus. To remember that she wasn’t supposed to be giving in this easily. “I’m surprised, Dr. House,” she said, keeping her voice quiet and detached, trying to ignore the way he was stroking between her legs, “that you even think it’ll still work.” She grabbed forcefully at his crotch for emphasis. “I would think, at your age, you’d have some issues ‘getting it up’.” she hissed, belying the hard shape under her hands, even through her gloves and his clothing.

He didn’t miss a beat.“Even if I had such ‘issues’, what makes you think I even _need_ anything more than my hands to get you off, Dr. Cameron?” he challenged.

She tried to come up with an insulting comeback. She tried to squeeze him through his jeans, to get back at him, to exact her revenge. If one could call it that. But gloved fingers suddenly pushed inside her, rough and hard, and she had enough work to do, just trying not to moan. She could barely even manage _that_.

He was winning. Again. 

She turned her head into his shoulder, sinking her teeth into the leather. She couldn’t hope to hurt him that way, but at least it made it easier to muffle her cries.

Those skilled doctor’s hands knew their way around a woman. She felt a new pressure against her clit, as his palm thrust against it, fingers moving inside her. She had no hope of resisting him. And she hated him even more, even as the pleasure went through her like a needle jab. Hated the fact that the sensations he was making her feel almost made her _want_ to like him again.

It didn’t take long at all for those hands to coax her to the edge – it had been a long time for her. Even her little tryst with Chase hardly counted, considering she remembered very little of the whole thing. She clutched at House with both hands, pushing her face into his jacket to silence her cry, confused emotions scattering in her head as she lost it, angry and yet wanting him, all at the same time.

At least until he gloated: “Well, that didn't take me very long, now, did it?" You’re _easy_.”

Her warmer feelings vanished, anger surging back to the forefront. She knew she couldn’t leave him with the last word. She’d never hear the end of it. So as soon as he’d slid his hand out from inside of her, she started tearing at his jeans with renewed purpose.

She ignored the discomfort of her bare flesh in the cold, the cooling dampness between her thighs. A plan was forming in her head. Payback.

She had her hands in his boxer-briefs, starting to stroke roughly up and down his shaft. He didn’t resist her, just closed his eyes and let his head rest on the snow. Speechless, for once.

It was almost _too_ easy. She had him at the edge in record time, his hips hunching in small thrusts against her hands, low gasping growls coming from him every few seconds.

It was time to turn the tables. When she judged the moment perfect, she pressed herself against him, whispering hotly in his ear, “Yeah, it’ll definitely be interesting in the conference room tomorrow. But maybe not the way _you’re_ thinking.”

Then she stopped. She removed her hands from him, from his skin, from inside his clothes. For a moment, he stared at her, still silentand blank-faced, as she yanked her own underwear and jeans back up. She watched in satisfactionas frustration and shock made their way onto his face.

“What the Hell—?” he growled, anger joining the other two emotions in his icy eyes. 

She tucked her torn blouse into her pants as best she could, and glanced nonchalantly up at him. “Maybe next time, House.”

He snorted, his eyes narrowing and his expression becoming calculating. “I'm not surprised. You never did want to finish anything, anyway. You're always running, aren't you? Should've expected you'd run here, too, when it was your turn.”

Her jacket closed, she started to get up, and then an evil idea occurred to her. “You’re right.”

She moved back against him, kissing him hard, shoving her tongue into his mouth, being the aggressor this time. Reaching to the side, her hand closed on snow, and she grabbed a fistful of it. He didn’t notice. And then, as he made a grab at her arm, obviously an attempt to push her into finishing what she’d started, she let him guide her hand to his fly. And then she crammed the large handful of snow down the front of his pants.

He swore loudly and sputtered, jerking back from her in surprise, and she couldn’t help a parting shot. “Cool down, _Greg_.” And then she got up and walked out of the bushes. Walked away and didn’t look back.

Finally.

She’d won this round.

++

 

Unimportant.

That’s what it was now. Rather, not completely unimportant, but simply tiring, the dance that they always seemed to do. He would annoy her, she would take it, he would become even more irritated, and assign her more work to do. It was simple and lopsided and ridiculous and it worked for them. But it didn’t work anymore.

Then there was a change. An inexplicable—even for the well-developed brain of Gregory House—change that threw off the entire routine. He didn’t know what it was. 

And this time, he wasn’t inclined to go looking for it. At least, not today. 

So he swallowed one of his pills and moved out of the hospital, convinced he could do nothing more, at least until tomorrow. Sure, he could phone her and be irritating, but he didn’t have the energy. They’d go in circles again tomorrow. Because she wouldn’t leave. It was a phase, or something like that, he knew. 

He stepped outside, and his breath started to cloud in front of him as he exhaled. 

Everything was predictable. Except for her. He knew it would be freezing out. Knew that it would be a bitch to ride his bike in weather like this. Knew that it would start snowing heavily soon, as opposed to now, where it was falling lightly and steadily. 

He expected all of that.

But he didn’t expect to find _her_ sitting on a bench outside of the hospital. He scoffed, but she didn’t see him; her back was turned, and she was apparently determined to look nowhere but straight ahead of her. 

Moving up behind her, he watched her for a few moments. Minutes. He didn’t even know. Simply tried to figure it out. When that didn’t work, he started tapping his cane rhythmically on the ground. One of his habits.

Her voice cutting through the cold air surprised him. 

“Stop that,” she said, still not turning around. He rolled his eyes—apparently, he’d become predictable, too. Somehow. Maybe that was the change. He shrugged.

“Why are you here?” 

“I’m sitting.”

“No shit.” 

She still didn’t turn to face him. “Why do you care?” 

“I don’t.” 

“Fine. Then leave, House.” 

He scoffed, and thought that it would probably indeed be in his best interests to leave, and have this conversation when both of them were ready to. Which would most likely be never, but he’d always prided himself on his optimism.

So he should have left. Saved them both the trouble. 

But he didn’t.

Instead, he moved to the bench and sat down next to her. Started tapping his cane again, just for the hell of it.

“I’ll leave—” he paused for sheer dramatic effect, “—when I get my apology.”

“What for?”

“For nearly killing my patient.”

She rolled her eyes, but still looked straight ahead. Her breathing was shaky, he noticed. Almost angry. Interesting. 

“Let it go. You know I didn’t do it.”

“His white blood count was normal this morning. Now, he’s in a clean room—”

“—I’m well aware of the status of the patient—”

“And _some_ body put him there.”

She turned to face him, not bothering to hide the anger and frustration in her eyes. And it thrilled him to see. That he was getting under her skin. She sighed. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe he put himself there? That nobody made a mistake? Or maybe that it was Foreman? Chase? The nurse that brings him his food?”

“You’re wasting your breath.” 

“House,” she said, and he thought he saw her hands start shaking. She was definitely angry. He had her. “Just leave it alone. Neither of us wants to have this conversation, okay? Not now.” 

“No.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I like watching you lose.” 

Her fists clenched and her nails dug into her palms. He supposed that she wanted nothing more than to slap him on the spot. And he didn’t care. “ _Fuck_ _you_.” 

He smirked, not letting the words coming out of her mouth surprise him. It was probably what she wanted, to startle him. Make him let his guard down. But he refused to. As always. “If you want.”

And then waited. His mistake. Because he’d pushed. It was his habit. But this time, he’d pushed too far. And he didn’t regret it. It was time for something to break anyway.

He’d just stepped over a line. He’d complimented her looks, made sexual remarks about other women around her, but he’d never said this kind of thing to her. Never intimated that he’d actually wanted her sexually. This was a definite first. And it would be interesting to see her reaction.

But he didn’t expect for her to smile. That slow, subtle curl of her lips that always irritated him. Because it made him feel like she knew something he didn’t, and she wouldn’t tell him, no matter how much he pushed, and—

But she smiled. And the anger was what made him get abruptly to his feet. 

There was no such thing as _predictable_ anymore. 

 

++

 

Something had changed.

Not that she cared. _He_ certainly didn’t. So why should she?

Typical, the way he’d tried to throw her indiscretion with Chase in her face. If this had been even a few weeks ago, she might have taken it as a sign that House was jealous. She’d seen him go crazy before (Stacy and Mark), and he’d gone crazy again right after she’d been holding Sebastian’s hand.

But now, she knew better. Or thought she did. He’d barely reacted upon figuring out she’d done Chase. Hell, he’d even made light of it. As if downplaying her HIV exposure hadn’t been enough. As if mocking it hadn’t been enough.

She could tell he was confused. He was used to pushing her buttons and getting particular responses. Now that she wasn’t giving them to him, he seemed to be unbalanced.

But she felt no thrill of victory. It was all so pointless, the whole exercise. Especially if she tested positive-

She cut that idea off, blanking her mind for a moment. Best not to go there. She had enough on her plate, managing the side-effects of her meds, trying to soldier on despite the pitying looks, despite the occasional snide or scandalized look some of the bolder nurses threw her way from time-to-time.

The last test was finished, and she waited for the printout. Letting her eyes go unfocused, she rubbed the aching bridge of her nose.

She watched the paper feed out through blurred eyes. She hadn’t felt this alone in a long – _long_ – time. Or had she ever really felt this way? Perhaps not. She hadn’t been alone when her husband had lain on his deathbed – there’d been Joe, her mother, her godparents. And that had been the only event in her life thus far that had even come close, in terms of heart-wrenching bleakness.

Of course, it hadn’t been her that had been dying, that time. Oh, her heart had been breaking, dying, watching Thomas move steadily towards the end of his life. But she herself hadn’t been dying. And now she could be.

Again, she wrenched her thoughts away. Almost welcoming the familiar squeak of the glass lab door opening behind her. Until she heard the cane-thumps. The _last_ person she wanted to see. Of course. Tiredly, she put her defenses up, marshalling her waning energies.

When he was nearly a pace or two away, she thrust the test printout towards him, blocking him with her outstretched arm, partially to keep him from getting any closer. She remembered him hanging over her shoulder to look at that Mafia patient’s chest x-ray. That felt like eons ago. Or as if it had happened to an entirely different Cameron.

“Here’s the results,” she said flatly. Sudden inspiration struck. “And I’m going home.”

He made one of his dramatic ‘surprised’ gestures. But it seemed strangely half-hearted. As if he was acting in a play, one that no longer interested him terribly. “Oh? And why is that?”

“I finished my Clinic hours. I’ve run every test you asked. It’s late. And you won’t let me near the patient, in any case. There’s nothing more I can do, therefore I’m leaving for the day.”

He scrunched his brow, but again, it seemed off. Badly performed. “Last I checked, _I_ was the boss. If I don’t want you to see the patient, you don’t. If I want you to stay here in case I need more tests run, you do.”

Up ‘til recently, she’d loved her job. The cases had been interesting, working for House had been interesting (if unusual and often annoying).

But now, she was done arguing. She hadn’t the energy anymore to waste on this. Whatever this was.

Nothing, that’s what it was. It was a game to him. She had loved her job, but not in weeks. Not since she’d had to come face-to-face with the possibility of her own mortality. And House had cut her feet out from under her. _Laughed_ at her. Fuck him. If she survived this – if she turned out to be negative – there were other jobs. Yule, for one. And she couldn’t resist throwing this in his face, however indirectly. “Then I guess you’d better start interviewing some replacements.” Since he still hadn’t taken the test results, she let go of them, not bothering to watch them waft gracefully to the floor, and walked briskly around him.

For once, his disability worked to her advantage. He couldn’t wheel around quickly enough to catch her, and couldn’t walk fast enough to keep up with her.

She expected that he wouldn’t call after her, and he didn’t disappoint her. It was OK, she didn’t much care. After everything she’d been through in the last few days, House actually firing her seemed…

Unimportant.

 

 

++

 

This was strange. He didn’t like it. He couldn’t read her any more. 

Her reactions hadn’t been nearly as entertaining as he’d hoped they would be. All of the expressions on her face had been cool and neutral and she seemed all too aware of his intentions.

He sat at his desk, twirling his cane. She came storming in, almost angry, but he’d seen her angry before. This wasn’t it. He simply wanted to see it again. It was his test. His way of pushing her, simply because he had no one else to push at the moment. Because it was his job to observe reactions and calculate emotion, in relation to the magnitude of the bait. How much she cared about him was supposed to be evident in how much she reacted to him.

And she wasn’t reacting. Not the way she always had.

“ _Why_ exactly am I not allowed to see the patient?” she asked, immediately, not even bothering to allow him to make a rude comment.

“Because someone made a mistake,” he replied simply. 

“It wasn't me.” 

“Your arguments are so persuasive. I don't even have to wonder how you got past your medical school interview. The ‘why do you want to go to this school?’ question must have been a breeze for you.”

She scoffed, obviously not in the mood for his games. “Nothing wrong with my argument.”

“I beg to differ. Persuasion skills are lacking.”

“You went on a date with me. I think that qualifies.”

He paused. Said nothing and simply observed for a moment; interesting how she’d managed to turn the argument around. Another piece for him to add to this stupid puzzle. 

“It’s not relevant, and therefore does not qualify.”

“I didn’t make a mistake,” she said, firmly, pointedly ignoring his words. He’d lost that game, and he was about to make it up.

“Prove it.”

“You can’t prove that I did. If you can’t prove it, I shouldn’t be the only one barred from seeing the patient.”

“This argument is stupid.”

“All of the ones with you are,” she shot back.

He glared at her, the expression on his face an obvious one of _don’t go there_ , but she appeared to ignore it. Another surprise. Usually, that look was enough to make her walk out of a room. Make her stop. Run away. But here, there was nothing. Again. Interesting. She just didn’t seem to care anymore. And he kept trying. Because it was his usual; experiment, test, and oftentimes humiliate. It was easy. 

She was merely the variable.

“If you don’t have another idea, there’s no point to you coming here.” 

She sighed. “Chase was alone with the patient when he did the LP. And then later when he was giving him the meds. I was in there twice. Both times, less than five minutes.”

“Your point?”

“He was more likely to make a mistake than me.” 

He didn’t look at her. His eyes focused instead on the reflection the name on his door made on the floor. _Dr. Gregory House, MD_ was just visible as a shadow on the floor, behind her, to the right of her legs. And then he decided to pay attention again, his response shallow and free of any emotion. “You’re just bitter.”

She laughed, almost derisively. “Yeah. It’s me,” she said. Pausing. “It wasn’t me.”

“Makes sense for you to blame it on Chase,” he said, his sneer growing.

“Why?”

“You’re trying to get him back for the fact that the sex sucked. Forgetting that you’re actually here to do your job. You’re off the case for the rest of the day. Now shoo. The clinic awaits.” Too late, he realized he had to be more careful. He didn’t need Cameron thinking that he actually cared that she’d slept with Chase. That he might actually be jealous.

She sighed again, almost imperceptibly, the expression on her face one of disappointment. An unexpected reaction, not the one he wanted. He was prepared for anything other than this. That always seemed to be the case with her—preparation was useless. He’d been pushing all day, and he still hadn’t gotten the desired reaction out of her.

“Would you care to tell me what your problem is?”

There. He’d broken through somehow. He smirked. “I don’t have a problem.”

“All of the psychologists I’ve known would disagree with you.”

He glared at her again. His expression cold. Normally, he would have responded with an equally sarcastic barb, but it wasn’t there today.

“Can you leave now?” he said, reaching for his iPod and indicating that the conversation was over.

She smiled at him then, and it was what made him angrier. Because it reversed all of his progress and managed to shatter all of his conclusions to hell. As it always seemed to do, but he could never understand why. 

Then she left. Walked out of the room, leaving him with the sound of her shoes clicking on the floor, almost ringing in his ears. 

The air in the room was different then. Normally, he wouldn’t care less that she’d left. He’d grab his iPod or a chart, and pretend to do something important. Now, it didn’t happen. And it was annoying the shit out of him. That shift. 

Something had changed. 

++

The routine was easy for them. Too easy.

They’d gotten lax. And someone had screwed up.

House glared at his three minions. Who was it? Who had fucked up _this_ time? Chase, Mr. Blond Pretty-Boy Slacker? He’d done it before, gotten distracted by a nice piece of ass (not that House ever let himself get distracted by such things, not at all _)_ and angio’d the wrong leg on a patient. Foreman? He’d never screwed up. But that was partially because the man never took risks. He practically measured out the sugar for his coffee grain by grain.

Lastly, House glared at Cameron, who still looked cool and calm, even now. Yes, it could’ve been her. No, she hadn’t screwed up with that little girl with Cushing’s Disease, but she _had_ run useless tests on that terminal lung cancer patient. And gotten too emotionally involved. And now she had the twin monkeys of potential-HIV and meth use riding her. That made it only a matter of time, before a mistake would be made.

“Who?” he finally spat angrily at them. “Which of you highly-trained doctors messed up?”

None of them answered. Knowing he’d just cut their defenses down. Chase avoided his gaze, looking uncomfortable. Foreman stared back, glaring, eyes clashing with his. Cameron just sat there, immobile, staring at the Whiteboard behind him.

He was angry. He wanted fear. He wanted blood. He’d handpicked these idiots, selected them because they were the best (puzzles). Screw-ups were _not_ an option.

He stalked over to the conference room table and slammed his hand down on it. Chase jumped satisfyingly in his seat. Foreman and Cameron didn’t flinch. Hm, not the reaction he’d wanted.

“Well, speak up! I’ll give the tattler a _prize_.” He glared at Chase, mainly, but made sure to turn and give the rest of them a goading look, as well.

Predictably, Foreman was the first to try and reason with him. “This is getting us nowhere. The best course of action is to stop the current treatment and see if Hascal gets better.”

“Who’s running this team, _Eric_? You, or me? I get to decide what we do next, that’s why I get paid the big bucks. So unless you’re owning up to screwing up, stop talking.”

“It wasn’t me.” Chase spoke up, a sullen mask now firmly in place. Clearly, he expected House to beat up on him, whether he’d made the mistake or not.

“Oh? And why should I believe you? Because you’re British, and therefore you’re too polite to _lie_?”

Chase didn’t bother to correct him, this time. “Because every time I screw up, you treat me even more like crap. So now I check and double-checkeverything. It wasn’t me.” 

That left the pathetically sincere Dr. Cameron. House turned to her, verbal talons ready to rend and tear. Nothing. She met his gaze, but otherwise didn’t react. “Well?” he finally asked impatiently. “Aren’t you going to plead for leniency?”

“I didn’t screw up.” Her voice was firm, her face drawn and tired but mostly expressionless. Like she didn’t care anymore what he did or said.

“Oh, I don’t know, Dr. Cameron, you’ve been under so much _stress_ lately. That whole new drug habit and moonlighting gig of yours. Kind of cuts into sleeping patterns. Tends to make one less alert and prone to mistakes while at one’s day job.”

There, she’d flinched a little. He’d scored a hit. From the corner of his eye, he saw Foreman leaning forward, belated big brother instincts starting to kick in, but Cameron only answered quietly, flatly: “Well, you would know all about drug use on the job, of course.”

It wasn’t so much the words – Hell, she’d been around him long enough, he would’ve been more surprised if she hadn’t started to sound like him, at times – but the delivery. Calm, flat, cold. Like she didn’t care. Like he didn’t matter.

He watched, feeling a little off-balance, as she turned to her fellow Ducklings. “We should go see Hascal. Not just stop the treatment, but check the log of all the drugs administered so far. Maybe even re-check the history. Maybe it wasn’t a screw-up, maybe it’s something he _lied_ about or omitted. Just like the last time someone ‘screwed-up’.”

This was strange. He didn’t like it. He couldn’t read her any more.

 

++

 

He just didn’t care.

Or rather, he worked hard to make it seem like he didn’t. He had a reputation to uphold. And it was easier to avoid pain by avoiding other people. Be a jerk, keep people at a distance. Less complicated, that way. **** A simple way to avoid the stupidity of other people. Smart. Or so he told himself.

He told himself that there was nothing he could do about Cameron’s HIV exposure. He couldn’t go back and change it.And showing concern, like everyone else who was trying to drown her with it, wouldn’t ‘cure’ her. Better to just be the jerk. Better to be what she had come to expect from him.

Better to focus on the things he could control, like his job. Well, in theory, anyways.

House strolled into the diagnostics office in a bad mood. It was too early and he hadn’t had his coffee. There were also clinic hours that needed to be done. That he wasn’t ready to do.

Cameron was working on some charts and her laptop at the desk in the other corner of the room, and he grunted, by way of greeting.

She had to stop herself from saying ‘Good morning’. It was a habit of theirs. Rather, hers. He’d walk into the office and sometimes there would be a greeting on his part, usually in the form of a grunt, sometimes not. But she would always say good morning. He usually didn’t, and today was no exception. Regardless, it was a small bit of normalcy for the both of them. The greeting, and the lack of one. She always said something.

Not this time. She just glanced up at him as he walked in. Kept her face expressionless. She didn’t even nod. Just looked up at him and then returned her eyes back to her laptop screen.

He wondered about how strange it was that he’d grown accustomed to the greeting from her. Really, it was a pointless thing, and he didn’t need her acknowledging him. But somehow, he’d grown to depend on it, lest it throw off his entire day. And this was one of those times. She was testing him.

It suddenly occurred to him that her HIV test was two weeks from today. Interesting.

House poured himself coffee into the mandatory red mug, and leaned his cane against the table in the middle of the room, then sat down. He propped his legs up on the table and studied her.

She didn’t look at him. Kept her gaze fixed on the laptop and the chart. Never at him. Because she’d become too good at his games and she wasn’t letting him win. He cocked his head to the side. She appeared so cool. Calm. Everything he didn’t expect her to be.

The shield fascinated him. He wondered, then, if he could break it. See what else there was. The puzzle-- his curiosity-- had never failed to get him into trouble. But he ignored it, and the implications of the situation. How fragile it was.

And she’d always been his testing board for such things. Testing the limits of others.

It was their tradition.

He took a sip from his coffee mug and set it down on the table with an obnoxiously loud noise. She didn’t move. “You’ve abandoned the pink scrubs, I see,” he said casually. Too casually.

“Excuse me?”

“The outfit that you came in with the other day. The pink scrubs.”

“What about them?”

“You don’t have them on today.” His voice was too casual for her. He didn’t care. She didn’t expect him to. And yet, the tone of the conversation was far too much for both of them. But they’d always rushed into everything. This didn’t have to be an exception.

“You’ve always been master of the obvious,” she said, shaking her head.

He sneered then. A mistake. “You all better now?”

It was said in a mocking tone that she definitely didn’t need. Not from anyone. Especially then.

She had never expected any caring or concern from him. Rather, she shouldn’t have. Both of them knew that. He never had the time to dote on anyone, much less her.

But it was the constant lure of the puzzle for him, this ridiculous obsession with her. Her puzzle. The carefully constructed shield that kept her calm in those situations. Situations where everyone else would break. ****

He wanted to push her. Find her lines. Her breaking points.

And he wanted to push now.

Her face was calm, still. Carefully calm. “What’s your problem?”

He shrugs. Again, a mistake. “I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

And at that moment, Chase chose to walk into the room, pathetically oblivious to the tension, and threw a file onto the table, triumphant smile on his face. “New patient.”

House shot a look at Cameron then. A strange look that seemed to hold something besides the obvious glare, the one that suggested that the conversation was far from over. But it was a ‘something’ that neither of them could figure out, and was probably best left alone.

He reached for the chart and set the day in motion. Started writing symptoms on the whiteboard, and Foreman came into the room. Something else that brought normalcy back.

The routine was easy for them. Too easy.

 

++

 

Cameron felt dead inside. As if the HIV virus had already taken hold, ravaging her immune system. Sapping her strength. _Killing_ her.

Confronting Kalvin about his lies - that the ‘wild life’ wasn’t a cure-all, it was just a _symptom_ of his need to self-destruct, to punish himself - had helped her deal with her anger towards him. Not that exposing her to HIV was his fault. Nor was it really his fault that she’d tried his meth, that she’d screwed Chase. Really, she had only herself to blame for all of that. For the withdrawal symptoms she still had. For the fact that the face in the mirror seemed to have aged twenty years. For the fact that she felt like a _shell_ , something that looked and acted human, but was actually a shambling zombie on the inside. 

Yes, Kalvin might have planted the idea, but it was _her_ stupidity that had gotten her into this.

But walking into PPTH, the morning after watching Kalvin apologize to his father, the anger she still felt twisting at her insides was only partially self-directed.

They’d all let her down. Every last one of them. Chase, who had slept with her, despite the fact she hadn’t been in her right mind. He’d tried to be ‘adult’ about it after the fact. Maybe he was just covering his ass, in case House wanted to beat the crap out of him with his cane. Or, now that he’d ‘notched’ his bedpost, he’d gotten all he wanted from her. Either way, Chase’d tried to handle it ‘gracefully’, by telling her it ‘hadn’t sucked’ (high fucking praise indeed), but that it was better to remain co-workers only. So nice of him.

Foreman, who had seemed to actually _approve_ of Chase doing her while she was high, at least according to the look that had passed between them in the diagnostic conference room, when House had figured the whole thing out. So much for being her friend.

Wilson had done slightly better, inquiring how she was (like Chase) – at least until House had shut him down- but not sleeping with her (unlike Chase), but even he had stopped showing concern in the face of House’s reaction.

Cuddy hadn’t even shown her face once, throughout the whole ordeal.

But House. _House._

Anger burned its way up her throat like acid, as she stepped into the elevator. She found it laughable to believe, now, that she’d ever loved him. Wanted him. 

Ever since the moment of her exposure, he’d been cold. Uncaring. _Inhuman_. Dissuading the team from supporting her at every turn. Even joking at her expense.

“ _No reason to risk exposing the entire team. Then who would I torment?”_

Not that she had ever really expected any amount of caring or concern from him. She knew him far too well by now for _that_ – a fact that, in itself, scared her. But the extent to which he’d brushed off her fears had still been a shock.

He’d told her once that he wouldn’t crush her. But _everybody lies_. Including House. _Especially_ House, apparently.

He’d crushed her, alright. Crushed her, ground her bones into the dirt under his cane and his Nike Shox. Not to mention how mortified she felt, now. Just when he’d started to open up to her voluntarily, telling her about his folks. Just when she’d started to think that he might be opening up to her. Letting her into his confidence. She should’ve known that hecouldn’t love her _._ That it was foolish to think otherwise. That he couldn’t even _care_. She was just a pawn in his sick games, and who felt any concern if pawns bled?

He just didn’t care.

She supposed it was still possible that under all those defensive layers, he did care. He just didn’t show it. But it was probably safer for her sanity to believe that he didn’t. She didn’t need to get crushed again. 

Better to keep him at a distance, and not let him get to her. Better to feel grateful that he’d shifted his full focus and attention onto Stacy.

She decided then and there to simply focus on doing her work, not on House—it was a useless effort, thinking about him, anyway. It would distract her and take her away from doing her job, and she didn’t need that.

They would be co-workers. Co-existing and working together, diagnosing patients. What they were _supposed_ to be doing while they were here, anyway. There was no time for obsession, not on her end.She wanted to feel nothing for him. She would keep him at a distance.

Co-workers.

Nothing else.

 


End file.
